


You're a Horror Show, Babe

by queendromeda



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crush at First Sight, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Morality, Gay Panic, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, On Hiatus, Passive Aggressive Allies to Boyfriends, Teenage Dorks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: "I'm looking for a mutual friend of ours. Jeremiah Valeska." Jonathan caught a flash of interest slide across Bruce's face. He held on to that. "You're looking for him too, aren't you? If we work together we could find him much easier than if we were alone."Bruce narrowed his eyes. "And why would I work with you?"or, Jonathan just wanted a friend. Bruce just wanted to stop connecting with lunatics. They meet in the middle.





	You're a Horror Show, Babe

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I've been in crackship hell for like a month now. Forewarning that these are teenagers and I've never known a teenager who fell in love slowly (and I say that as a teenager). So. Like. They're both stupid nerds who need to get their act together. And I hate them. Okay. 
> 
> Also, Bruce comes across as a bit darker. Because of where we left off in canon I'm justifying this by the circumstances he's in. He's desperate and alone and, let's face it, has, like, no impulse control.

Jonathan enjoyed his arrangement with Jerome and Jervis. He really did. It was fun. Exciting. Nice to finally let loose and see the fear in other people's eyes on a larger scale than he ever had before. Nice to draw that fear out and soak in it. Honestly, it was edging towards intoxicating. 

Then, of course, Jerome died, and Jervis and him went their separate ways for the time being. It was best to stay out of the GCPDs way while they dealt with whatever cataclysmic event they were dealing with. He liked the solitude. Mostly. He just found that it was lonelier than he expected it would be, especially after his consistent interaction with people — were they friends? allies? — and he wanted something  _ more _ . 

Interaction. Acknowledgment.  _ Partnership _ . 

Instead, he got Jeremiah Valeska showing up in his safe house, looking ridiculously pale and much more unhinged than he'd been the last time he saw him. He was asking —  _ threatening  _ — him to make a special blend of fear toxin. Something that wasn't meant to drive a person completely out of their capacity, but designed to subtly induce delirium, marked by paranoia, delusions, and hallucinations. It was a nefarious design, sure, but much too slow acting for his usual interests. Jeremiah's toxin didn't cause fear but built off of fear already felt. 

It was pointless, really. 

At least, that was what Jonathan thought until he found out who the toxin was for. 

Bruce Wayne apparently made something in the minds of the Valeska twins itch. He had captured Jerome's attention thoroughly and was only ranted about slightly less than Good Captain Gordon. Jeremiah seemed to inherit not only his brother's insanity but also his obsession. The only question was  _ why _ ? 

To Jonathan, Bruce Wayne was boring. 

He could remember, before he started to  _ see _ , before his dad started his experiments, reading about the Wayne's murder, and thinking it was tragic. He didn't care about them, not really, but he did feel a smattering of pity for the kid that was left behind in the Narrows. Where he felt pity, the gossip rags felt opportunity, and for months every headline seemed to pertain to the murders. The mystery of it seemed to entrance people. Sure, the GCPD had caught their killer, but  _ why  _ did he do it? What would become of the poor, young Wayne heir? And on and on and on, for months. 

Jonathan remembered his dad muttering, on one of his better days, that it was a miracle that Bruce Wayne was spared. He could also remember thinking that watching the people you love die and not dying yourself might have been a greater tragedy. Reflectively, he was probably pretty screwed up before his dad ruined him even further. 

Now, when he thought back on Bruce Wayne, analyzing the obsessions of the Valeska's and the billionaires continued survival despite everything he'd been put through, he wondered if there wasn't something in him that was made embittered and grotesque, like the rest of Gotham — or at least, the rest of Gotham that mattered. The  _ players _ in the game for the city. 

So, he made Jeremiah's toxin. It wasn't as if he was given much of a choice if he valued his life — which he did. He had  _ plans _ , you see. And he made sure to stick around in the building to watch the show. 

In his opinion, Jeremiah should have put the actual butler on display instead of the man he picked up of the street. The toxin would still work, but there would have been fewer chances of the plan going awry. And, even if Bruce Wayne made it out of the predicament, as he so often managed to do, he'd still be left shattered with another loss. 

Grief was not nearly as sweet as fear, but gear caused before the onset of grief — fear for what  _ could  _ happen or for what  _ would _ happen — was the sweetest by far. 

Bruce Wayne was a delight to watch. He was manic. Frantic. And yet, still controlled. He held himself well. Faced the disorienting and horrific projections of torture with far more grace than most eighteen-year-olds would be able to, and continued on, undaunted, deeper into the labyrinth that Jeremiah had created. He acted completely undeterred by the fear he had to be experiencing. 

Fear, interestingly enough, not for himself, and what Jeremiah wanted from him, but for the butler. Either he trusted Jeremiah enough to think that he wouldn't harm him — which would have been stupid considering the whole ordeal he was in, however quote-unquote  _ transformative _ it was supposed to be, was all made to hurt him — or he was able to squash down his own fears in an annoying display of strength. 

It was admirable, Jonathan grudgingly admitted. Slightly vexing, when he thought about the threat Jeremiah leveled at him over the successfulness of his mixture. But, in the end, he knew it would be successful. 

It always was. 

  
  


Or it  _ usually  _ was. 

Bruce Wayne broke out of his psychosis. 

Bruce Wayne, who had been screaming, crying, tugging on his hair in desperation as he lost his mind, broke out of it. It should have been unbreakable. 

Jonathan consoled himself with excuses. Either Bruce Wayne's friend with whip helped him break out of it or Jeremiah's shoddy choice of keeping the butler alive, but he had to have had help. He couldn't have just come back to himself. That would have been impossible. 

Still, something about it ate at him. Bruce Wayne broke out of it. He faced his fear. Slipped over the edge briefly — and his screams,  _ oh _ , his screams, there was nothing beautiful about his screams. In fact, they reminded Jonathan of his own screams, early on after his dosing. Before he lost his voice for the first time. And he hated that. Because when Bruce Wayne was screaming, he couldn't help but feel some misplaced smatterings of compassion rise up. He slipped over the edge and came back from it. 

Bruce Wayne either had a firm grasp and understanding of his own sanity, or he was already insane. 

Was that why the Valeska twins were so interested in him?

Despite himself, Jonathan felt intrigued. 

  
  


Jonathan never had a lot of friends growing up. Or, more correctly, he never had  _ any  _ friends growing up. He was socially anxious and too smart and too poor to really get along with anyone. He never could passably fit in. That became even more apparent after his mom's death and his dad's spiral. And, honestly, asylums aren't really the best places to meet people. 

Again, he wondered if could even count Jervis and Jerome as friends. They certainly weren't the type that he'd have been able to take home and show to his mom, because,  _ oh, how she worried _ about her poor  _ Johnny _ , and, yes, he'd done a lot of things that his mom wouldn't approve of, but he likes to think that she would understand if only she were here, but the one thing she wouldn't overlook was a poor choice in acquaintanceship. The twenty-four-year-old sadist and thirty-year-old deviant probably wouldn't pass muster. Which, he supposed, was fair. 

He wondered what his mom would think of Bruce Wayne. 

Then he reprimanded himself. 

Unlike every other villain in town, he had absolutely no intention of getting involved with Bruce Wayne. Jeremiah had his own plans for the billionaire and it was definitely in his best interest to stay out of whatever dance they were engaged in. 

Still, he couldn't help reaching for that dream sometimes. Not Bruce Wayne, not really, but the idea of a friend. Someone who could understand him, and understand why he did what he did and not run away scared. He wanted someone who could face fear and manipulate it and conquer it. Not a mirror image, but maybe a reflection in a pond. Different, but still like. 

And, yes, maybe Bruce Wayne checked off some of those boxes. He faced fear and conquered it and, well, honestly, he could also probably manipulate it,  _ but _ Jonathan was a Crane, not a Valeska, and he wasn't too keen on forcing relationships to fruition. 

Bruce Wayne probably didn't even know who he was beyond the Scarecrow. He probably didn't care either. 

But he still dreamed. 

  
  


He needed test subjects. Lately, he'd been fiddling with his toxin, trying to make it work more precisely. It was nice to listen to people's screams, but after the incident with Jeremiah and Bruce Wayne, he was starting to see the benefit of something that worked slowly. He wanted something that was insidious. Something someone could be infected with and not notice until far too late. 

A toxin that he could use that wouldn't be traced back to him  — at least for the time being, especially considering that Gotham was now up for grabs. He wanted something that would ruin a person when he was feeling particularly vindictive. The rest of the world, the nameless people passing by, they were perfect for his original formula. They'd lose their minds in an instant, and he could relish in the looks of fear on their faces, he  _ loved _ the way they'd beg the phantoms of their minds. And, when their mewling became too much, his scythe  _ was _ more than a design choice. 

So, he left the house that he'd liberated — he refused to call what he was doing  _ squatting,  _ how demeaning — and began his hunt. 

The streets were as near to deserted as Gotham could get. Most of the low-lives in the city must have scurried off into their hidey-holes to wait out the initial onslaught of devastation. It was smart, but wouldn't help them in the long run, especially with so much territory up for grabs and so much havoc to cause. Not everyone had hunkered down though, and he kept walking until the tell-tale sounds of a scuffle caught his ear. 

Maybe he'd get two test subjects instead of just one. The thought alone was enough to brighten his thoughts as settled near the mouth of the alley the fight was taking place in, hiding in the shadows, watching and waiting for the right moment to reveal himself. 

Vaguely, he could make out what looked like one person already laying on the ground unmoving, whether they were dead or unconscious Jonathan couldn't tell, and a second was being kicked against one of the shipping containers that lined the alley. The man who pushed him against the container cut an imposing figure, commanding the space he occupied and holding his victim up by the neck. 

"Where is Jeremiah?" the attacker asked, his voice nearly a growl. With a start, he realized he recognized the voice. It was Bruce Wayne's. 

Suddenly, things got a lot more interesting. 

The man that Bruce held up sounded scared. Pleading. "We don't know!"

Bruce leaned in closer, and  _ yes _ Jonathan could just imagine the fear in the eyes of his victim, it was delicious. "You see him… You tell him I'm looking for him." Then he reared back and punched him again, throwing the man to the ground, unmoving. 

It was in that moment that Jonathan discovered two things. The first was that Bruce Wayne was a creature of fear much like himself. He commanded it. Crowded and imposed and drew it out using brute force and not much else. The Yin to Jonathan's Yang. The second was that, on a whole, he was well and truly  _ fucked _ . 

Bruce was moving out of the alley, leaving the bodies behind him on the ground — how heroic — and Jonathan was transfixed. There was something like a snarl still twisting the billionaires mouth, making his face seem crueler, and, when he stepped under a dwindling street light, his eyes weren't as cold as he expected them to be. They were burning. Angry and unrepentant about it. 

Even before his transfer to Arkham, Jonathan always seemed to have a fixation on eyes. Somebody once said that eyes were the windows of the soul. They showed so much, too much usually, but they showed fear particularly well. Jonathan thought that fear would look even better on Bruce than anger did — which was hard to imagine, because already he could feel himself being drawn in like a moth to a flame, and he wondered, once again, if this is what the Valeska's felt when looking at him? A missing piece of the puzzle and the taste of something that might have been  _ possibility _ ? He doubted it. What he was feeling felt too tender, too new, to be anything they could ever imagine. 

And Bruce was moving closer to the mouth of the alley, closer to him, and when he was too close for comfort, Jonathan stepped away from where he'd been watching, crouched and silent, letting his footsteps fall menacingly, breaking the quiet of the night. 

Bruce tensed, his hands curling into fists as he turned to face him, and Jonathan, with a rapidly beating heart, noticed that Bruce Wayne had really nice skin.

_ Fuck _ . 

  
  


They just stood watching each other for a moment. To Jonathan's surprise, Bruce did little more than raise an eyebrow at him upon discovering he was trapped in an alley with Gotham's very own personification of fear.

As the silence between them dragged on, it became increasingly hard to resist giving into his nervous ticks. 

Bruce took pity on him it seemed. He sighed. "You're working with Jeremiah?"

He wasn't afraid. Jonathan's fingers twitched. Bruce Wayne wasn't afraid of him. In fact, he was staring him down the same way someone might an unruly dog. That is, if people usually looked ready to pounce on unruly dogs and beat the shit out of them at the slightest provocation. Which is what the look in Bruce's eyes was telling him would happen if he didn't like the way their chat went. It was kind of adorable. Off-putting, but adorable.

"No." Jonathan said, tilting his head in a way that he hoped would come across as blasé and threatening. 

If anything Bruce looked even more exasperated. "Well," he waved a hand in a  _ go-on _ gesture, "What do you want? If your gonna try to kill me, get on with it." 

He somehow managed to make that sound like a threat. As if Jonathan — Scarecrow — wasn't the most dangerous person in the alleyway. It rankled. The insult of it made the paper-thin skin on his wrists itch as he felt his heart pound. Something told him that even if he tried to kill him, if he managed to dose him with the experimental toxin in his wrist canisters or hit him with the scythe, that things wouldn't go his way. Bruce Wayne was more of a predator than anyone had ever made him out to be. 

Jerome would constantly laugh about the  _ Wayne kid _ or  _ brat _ or  _ boy _ , whatever descriptor he felt like using when he got himself worked up. He always made it sound like his eternally unrevealed plan about how he wanted to kill him would be cut and dry. 

"He's a rich brat with chips on both of his shoulders," Jerome had laughed once, "Maybe if I took his head his personality would balance out." Jonathan got the impression now that Jerome knew exactly who Bruce Wayne was and had no serious plans to kill him. They'd had so many opportunities to do so, to make a show out of it as Jerome was fond of doing, and yet they never took any of them. 

It made him curious as to what Jerome really had planned for Bruce. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer. Especially if his plan was anything like what Jeremiah wanted. Madness. A mirror. Jonathan was of the belief that if you truly liked someone you shouldn't need to change them into something else, something that better fit your worldview. They'd change on their own if they so desired. Any other way was pathetic. 

He tightened his grip on his scythe, moving closer. He liked the way Bruce tensed. Not scared, not yet, but wary. He circled around the billionaire, dragging his feet on the concrete, relishing in the ugly scratch he made, and said, "I don't want to kill you."

Bruce had the audacity to roll his eyes. 

It was almost endearing. 

It also threw Jonathan off his rhythm. "I want to work with you."

_ What? _

Bruce was just as unimpressed as his inner voice. "No offense, but I think I work better alone."

Now that was just rude. "You don't even know what I want to work with you  _ on _ ."

Though, to be fair, Jonathan didn't know what he wanted to work with him on either. 

Bruce shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. I'm booked through the month."

Jonathan wanted to make a pointed look at the smoke that was steadily rising from what remained of the bridges that had once surrounded the city, but the mask got in the way and he didn't want to come across as completely undignified. He had a reputation to uphold. It was a poor excuse on Bruce's part. They both knew that the only thing he'd be doing, when Gotham was in its current state, was look for Jeremiah, which— 

"I'm looking for a mutual friend of ours. Jeremiah Valeska." Jonathan caught a flash of interest slide across Bruce's face. He held on to that. "You're looking for him too, aren't you? If we work together we could find him much easier than if we were alone." 

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "And why would I work with you? You're just as bad as he is." 

"This city's sick. We both know that. By morning it'll be a warzone. You think you can find one nutjob in a town of thousands? No. You need my help, because I'm the only other person in this city willing to put everything else aside to hunt down Jeremiah with you."

He raised another eyebrow. Jonathan was starting to get a feeling that he had a lot of practice in acting disinterested. "So, you've what? Waited until I was alone to sell me your pitch? Excuse me for finding that suspicious."

Jonathan pushed closer. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already… You've been acquainted with my toxin before. All it takes is one breath. But, like I told you already, I want to work  _ with  _ you." 

At the mention of his fear toxin, Bruce looked a bit uneasy, unconsciously pitching himself farther away. It was the first sign that he'd gave that he might not have been as collected as he appeared. And it seemed that even though he broke out of his psychosis, he still feared the idea of the toxin. Jonathan had been starting to think that nothing he could do would startle him. How interesting. 

Things were still between them for a long moment, the offer up in the air, before Bruce turned and moved closer to Jonathan. He moved until he was a chests width apart and could look into his crudely cut eye holes. Describing him as fearless seemed like an oversimplification, but Jonathan couldn't see a trace of apprehension in his expression. Instead, there was something wide-eyed about him, pressing and coaxing, and it made his breath catch. 

"I don't kill." Bruce said. It felt more like a challenge than a statement. 

Jonathan wondered briefly if he could risk asking him what exactly he wanted to do about Jeremiah if he wouldn't kill him, but figured that might hurt his chances over all. He'd find out in due time, anyways. 

"Is that a yes?" And he made a notable effort to hide how giddy he was. 

Right as Bruce was opening his mouth the answer, a bright light blinked into existence above them, cutting through the grime of night and drawing both of their gazes up to the sky. There was something about the light that was vaguely threatening, like it was a warning to the city at large. Jonathan also couldn't help but notice that it was shining up from the general direction of the GCPD. 

"James Gordon." He couldn't hold back his scoff. "Showing the citizens of Gotham that even in the darkest and most perilous of times, that there will be light." 

Bruce was still looking up at the sky, seemingly transfixed. "It's a beacon. He's drawing every dark thing in town towards him."

Jonathan wondered if he was counting himself among the dark things, because, judging from the expression on his face, Bruce Wayne would be leaving him behind very soon. He tried not to be bitter about it. Surely, if there was anyone who would set aside their desire for revenge on behalf of the Chief of Police in a lawless city, it would be Bruce Wayne. Jerome had been fond of calling him a "goody-two-shoes," and it wasn't like he was wrong. 

Despite that, he still felt the familiar burn of rejection slide over him. This was fine. It wasn't like he'd set out that night to find Bruce Wayne. He'd seen an opportunity, tried to take it, and things didn't pan out. That's life. 

Bruce moved farther away from him, closer to the mouth of the alley where he'd be able to slip on to the empty streets and make it to Gordon and whatever remained of the GCPD. The good guys. Of course, Bruce Wayne would want to be with them over Jonathan. 

Then he looked back, using both of his hands to turn the collar of his coat up against the wind, and asked, "Well? Are you coming? I'm assuming you've been staying somewhere around here?"

And Jonathan thinks that, for a moment there, he forgot how to breathe. 

  
  


He quickly came to the conclusion that he'd overestimated his own ability to deal with the fact that he would be working with Bruce Wayne. Technically, they weren't even working together yet. They were just walking to Jonathan's house and already he felt like he was going to jump out of his own skin. Bruce was also, unfortunately, walking so closely beside him that every once in a while their arms brushed. It wasn't by choice, of course, but by necessity, since the alleys and backstreets in and out of the Narrows were, well, narrow. 

But he was still walking next to him. He still agreed to work with him. Jonathan had no idea why he decided to take him up on his offer — honestly, he was still dealing with the fact that he'd gone and made the offer in the first place — and while he was dressed in his suit, which he knew,  _ logically _ , was very intimidating, he couldn't help but feel small next to Bruce. Maybe it was the way he refused to bat an eye at the burlap horror Jonathan had transformed himself into. 

He was also incredibly aware that when he was around boys with nice skin and dark hair and even darker eyes, that all of his social grace vanished, leaving him surrounded by his regular shell of bumbling awkwardness. It was unfair. He was  _ literally _ the most terrifying figure in Gotham, and here he was panicking underneath his mask because Bruce Wayne accidentally bumped him with his elbow. He was pathetic. 

Pathetic  _ and _ compelled to make unnecessary small talk. 

Like with most things, he liked to blame his dad for his underdeveloped social skills. The therapists he'd had before Arkham had told him that being a social outcast and then adding the trauma of being a reluctant accomplice in your father's serial murders really screwed a kid up. Jonathan could have figured that out for himself, but considering at the time he couldn't look in a reflective surface without screaming, he supposed he'd just take their word for it. 

Bruce, he noticed, was very good at moving through shadows. It was almost like they clung to the edges of his coat. Some distant part of his mind latched onto the idea and imagined that he'd look even better in a cape or a cloak. Very Draculian. It would make a statement. He also noticed that despite being one of the wealthiest people in the city, he seemed to know the Narrows extremely well. And wasn't that curious?

So Jonathan just had to ask about it. "How is it that Bruce Wayne knows the Narrows so well?"

"How does a kid who's been in and out of asylums since his early teens?"

"You've read about me?" Jonathan asked, hoping his smile wouldn't reveal itself in his voice. That would really kill his vibe. "That's cute… Asylums aren't all isolationist, you know. You meet people. Make friends… Trade stories." 

Bruce turned his head to look at him, an ugly expression crossing his face. "You learn a lot more living in the Narrows than you do being told about them." 

Jonathan thinks his brain must have shut down. Because there's no way that Bruce Wayne, a billionaire with a manor on the outskirts of the city, who was currently wearing a Burberry coat and real lambskin gloves, was implying that he had lived in the Narrows. That had to be a joke or a reference to something that was going over his head or—

He stopped himself. He took in the way Bruce seemed to move with a purpose, avoided pot holes and open street grates, and moved smoothly, without making a sound. He'd already noticed the way the shadows clung to him, so this idea of Bruce Wayne being a street kid at some point wasn't actually all that far fetched. Maybe. He might have been deluding himself. But Bruce did have a way of moving without drawing attention to himself, which, in Jonathan's experience, most rich folk seemed to lack. In fact, sometimes, if he let his mind wonder, Jonathan couldn't even tell he was next to him as they walked. He turned to look and—

He was gone. 

Something in his chest went cold. He'd left. He'd agreed to go with him, but changed his mind halfway through and just vanished from Jonathan's side without even giving an explanation. Which, sure, might have been fair. The last time Bruce had any close contact with a criminal, it was Jeremiah, and it was hard to imagine what Jeremiah would do if someone he was obsessed with just up and left. Probably do something attention catching, like kill everyone they cared for. But considering he already tried that with Bruce, and failed three for three, he'd most likely have something even more twisted up his sleeve.

Jonathan thought that the whole situation was a bit unfair. He hadn't even threatened him. If Bruce wanted to leave he would have let him and that would have been fine. He wouldn't have made an  _ ordeal _ out of it. His mother raised him better than that. 

Still, the abandonment  _ hurt _ . 

He stopped walking when he realized Bruce was gone. He hadn't even noticed, too caught up in the fact that he was left alone. Again. 

Then, from the end of the alley they'd been walking through, Bruce appeared from where he'd apparently been waiting against a wall. He looked impatient. "Are you coming or not?"

It was pitiful how relieved Jonathan felt. 

  
  


The rest of the walk was uneventful. The streets were still void of people, at least in this area of town, though the ocasional rat or alley cat crossed their path. Bruce was as quiet as ever, seeming to float along, almost a shadow himself. It was entrancing. Jonathan, though he hated to admit it, couldn't' help but watch him out of the corner of his eye, making sure he was still with him and not sliding completely into the darkness. 

They made it to Jonathan's house without any fuss, arriving as quietly as he'd left earlier that night. And wasn't that a trip? He left to hunt some prey and came back with a predator of his own. Bruce Wayne. He felt a firm thrill of vindictiveness at that. The Valeska's could choke. He'd managed to do what they never could. Partially, at least. 

"You're squatting?" Bruce asked, from where they stood on the road outside the house, by the trash cans. 

Jonathan felt an itch under his skin. They were being watched. The other people in the neighborhood — a sort-of Narrows-adjacent community, filled with pockets of persistent gentrification — were not wealthy enough to make it out of the city during the evacuation. By now, they had to be aware of his claim of the street. The  _ Scarecrow's _ claim. He was unmistakable in his burlap suit, but the dark figure beside him was probably a curiosity to them. It made him want to shepherd Bruce into the house as soon as possible. 

"The owners and I reached an agreement," he said, trying to hold his twitchinessat bay. 

The look of disdain that Bruce gave him was kind of cute. Though, he was sure the constant scorn of death would get old after a while—

_ Oh shit _ .

He was inviting Bruce Wayne into his hideout. He was inviting Bruce Wayne, who's challenging point in this arrangement was "I don't kill," into his hideout that had a recently headless corpse decorating the dining room floor. This was going to be a disaster.  

Bruce, who was oblivious to his panic, moved closer to the front door. "We should get off the street before your neighbors get even more curious about who your leading home."

Sure enough, he could make out a few faces pressing to the glass of their windows. Vultures. As calmly as he could, he sped over to Bruce, and used his height to crowd him away from the door. Or tried to. Bruce was pretty undaunted. 

With a sinking feeling in his chest, he opened the door, pushed Bruce forward, thankful for the lack of light in the house which was shrouding the surrounding rooms in darkness. The staircase was the first thing that greeted them when entering the home, but the dining room, with its body, was still too close for comfort. 

He wasn't sure what to do, but figured if he headed towards the stairs with an assuredness he definitely did not feel, that things might work out okay. And, sure enough, Bruce followed him up the stairs, somewhat cautiously, like he thought Jonathan might strike at any moment. Once they made it to the second floor, Jonathan realized that he hadn't spent a lot of time in any of the upstairs rooms — he'd been sleeping on one of the living room couches to keep near his lab. 

Making another judgement call, as they seemed to working for him so far, he opened the first door that was on his right, which was, thankfully, a dusty and threadbare bedroom. Bruce loitered in the doorway as Jonathan made a lap around the room, trying to expel his nervousness before it become too noticeable. 

"You should sleep in here." He said, pushing open the doors on the closet and finding, shoved close to the top, a pile of musty blankets that probably had moths in them, and grabbed them, dumping them in the center of the room. They landed on top of a yellowed rug, sending an impressive amount of dust in the air. Hopefully, rich people didn't have allergies. 

"Excuse me?" Bruce asked, looking mildly affronted. 

Jonathan started to move back to the doorway. "You should get some sleep. We have a lot of work ahead of us and you look like you haven't slept in, what? Thirty hours?"

Bruce frowned. "Forty."

"All the more reason to sleep now."

His frown deepened. "And what are you going to be doing?"

Telling the truth — that he would be disposing of the body that he was hiding in the dining room — didn't feel like the best answer, so Jonathan just shrugged noncommittally. "I'll be sleeping too." 

Bruce scrutinized him for a long moment, as if judging for himself whether Jonathan really needed sleep or not. In the end, he nodded, looking, for the first time that night, less in control. He looked younger. Exhausted to the bone and, now that his walls were coming down, maybe even a little frightened. He was just a kid, Jonathan realized with a flash of apprehension. He was only a year younger than himself. 

"I'll be downstairs," he said helplessly, feeling suddenly off-kilter. He wasn't sure if that would reassure him or put him on edge. 

Bruce just nodded again, moving towards the moth-ridden blankets, and Jonathan took that as his cue to leave. 

He made his way downstairs quickly. He didn't think that Bruce would follow him, there was a glint in his eyes that spoke of a kind of tired that required time alone. It was something that Jonathan could understand. There were plenty of times, most times really, where he enjoyed the solitude of his own company over the company of others. Besides, he had something important to deal with. Namely, the body in his dining room. 

He stood over it for a moment, noticing with dread that he could make out, even in the dark, the blood stains he'd left on the pale carpet. He would need to clean those up, too. How lovely. 

  
  


The next day they left in the early afternoon. 

The morning had been strained. Jonathan was tired, and while he could get by on very little sleep, a side effect of his insomnia, it would have been nice to have a restful night's sleep. He'd dumped the body in a dumpster that was a few blocks down, cleaned the carpet as best he could, and scrubbed the blood splatter from the walls, with enough time left in the night to tinker with his chemicals, before he crashed on the sheet-covered couch for a few hours. He woke up a few hours after sunrise to Bruce hovering in the doorway. 

Jonathan slept in his suit. He wasn't comfortable enough to be around anyone without the added layer of protection his Scarecrow persona offered. His time in Arkham had made him extremely sensitive to eyes on him, so he snapped awake, and, in his half-asleep state, couldn't help but notice that Bruce cut a nice figure leaning against the doorframe. 

It seemed that he managed to hunt down some new clothes from the bowels of the house. He was wearing the same slacks, but had traded his button-up and expensive overcoat for an oatmeal-colored cable knit sweater that was at least two sizes too big. His hair was messy, curling a bit, and Jonathan couldn't remember the last time that someone had looked at him so softly, so consideringly. Bruce looked soft. Like the type of person he'd be able to take home to his mom. Someone with warm hands and soft hair and a gentleness that was probably underserved. 

He cut those thoughts off as soon as they cropped up. Living in fantasy was unconstructive. His mom was dead and he'd never bring anyone home to her. And, while Bruce was around for the moment, Jonathan wasn't his first choice. He hadn't even sought him out. He was only around because he was angry and desperate enough to lower his standards to include him. He would be cordial, sure, but he would never really  _ want _ to be around Jonathan. 

So he just laid still, before feigning awakeness a few minutes later. Bruce pretended like he hadn't been watching him sleep for who knows how long, and Jonathan let him pretend. If he didn't bring it up, he didn't have to completely destroy the idea that he might have been interesting enough to garner attention. 

Things were quiet before them. Tense, but they were able to work cohesively enough. And, when Jonathan told Bruce his plan, he listened to what he had to say, his eyes dark as he processed the information being thrown at him. At the end of Jonathan's spiel, he nodded slowly, arms crossed over his chest, his arms swimming in the sleeves of his sweater, and said, "Let's go."

The plan was simple enough. They'd go to the dilapidated building that Jonathan remembered seeing Jeremiah in last, when he'd been working with him on the creation of a new toxin to use on Bruce, and if there was any good will left in the world than that would be where Jeremiah decided to hunker down. 

Gotham was surprisingly quiet still. The early afternoon air cool and stinging even through his burlap, and thick clouds were rolling in overhead. They weren't traveling far. Jeremiah's hideout was in the space between an old office building and a consignment store, and unless there were squatters no one was waiting on the street outside. 

The lack of people out and about was strange. He hadn't seen anymore than the occasional silhouette moving behind windows, but from deeper in the city the occasional explosion reverberated out. Sometimes, as they passed row after row of houses, he could hear fights breaking out behind closed doors. He wondered what it was about this region of the Narrows that kept people inside. He was sure that throughout the rest of the city the GCPD was having a field day. Or, more likely, dying. 

In the light of day, however smoggy that light was, and wearing a sweater that was way too big for him, Bruce looked much less intimidating. However, there was still something about the way he carried himself, maybe the look in his eyes, that kept him from appearing to be too out of place next to the Scarecrow. 

Together they walked to the front entrance of the building, a nondescript door surrounded by red bricks, and Bruce yanked it open, stepping in first. Considering that he was unarmed, Jonathan thought that might have been a bit stupid on his part, be he still followed after him. At this point, he was probably far more concerned about exacting his revenge than his own safety, which was something that Jonathan could understand, even if he didn't like it. 

The building was surprisingly well lit. There were windows across the top of the entry level filtering in the daylight, illuminating the vast emptiness that filled the space. The floor was clear, bar a few heavy, brick-like desks that would have fit the 60's perfectly. As Jonathan took a step forward to begin a sweep across the space, just to make sure it was as empty as it seemed, three figures rose out from behind one of the clunky desks, guns in hands and smiles painted across their faces in red lipstick.

They weren't the same followers that Jeremiah had liberated from his brother, but there was something unhinged about them, nonetheless. Maybe it was the blankness in their eyes or the manacy to their smiles, but something about these new henchmen set his teeth on edge. He gripped his scythe tighter. 

The middle one, who was wearing a garish orange bowlers shirt, tilted his head at them. "We've been waiting for you," he said, his voice low and airy, "We've been waiting for you to come. You think you're clever, coming back to take what's left of your formula, but, oh, Boss is cleverer. You won't be leaving here alive."

It was all clearly directed at Jonathan, who should have expected something like this from Jeremiah. He hadn't ever planned on coming back for whatever remnants remained of his formula  — he had all that he needed from it in his head — but it was nice to know that Jeremiah thought he was expendable. 

Orange Shirt's attention flickered towards Bruce momentarily, before he looked back at Jonathan, his smile widening. "I'm afraid your boy toy here won't be leaving either."

Beside him, Bruce stiffened, an angry huff falling from his lips. Jonathan, however, couldn't help but be glad that they hadn't recognized him. If they had, they would have known how badly Jeremiah wanted him, which meant that if things went south here there was no telling how much that information would be worth. Not that Jonathan intended on letting them live at all. 

Moving forward, he swept an arm out to push Bruce farther behind him, not needing his interference or his silly "I don't kill" morals. As the goons raised their guns, far too slowly to be professionals, he swept his wrist out, pulling down on the mechanism that released his toxin. The guy on the left dove to the ground, out of the way, but Orange Shirt and the guy on the right inhaled. Hardly a second passed before their guns were falling from their hands and their smiles falling from their faces as they screamed. 

He was dimly aware of Bruce going after the guy who had dove out of the way. Distantly, he could make out the sounds of a scuffle, but the screaming is what really captured his focus. He moved closer to them, anticipation threading its way through his veins. He stopped in front of Orange Shirt, who was crumbled on the ground blubbering nonsense to someone only he could see, and, with one sweep, he brought his scythe down over his neck. His blood splattered warmly onto the floor. 

Jonathan turned to face the other, rolling his shoulders back and lifting the scythe up again, prepared to cut through his neck just as easily. He would have too, if not for the sudden crash against his back in the form of a teenage billionaire. Bruce leaped onto him from behind, knocking him sideways, his scythe dipping down onto the floor, before twisting around to stand between Jonathan and the screaming man. 

" _ Don't _ ," he said. 

There was something menacing peaking into his voice, something dark in his eyes, but Jonathan did not like having his prey ripped away from him — he did not appreciate the audacity of it, the  _ arrogance _ . He was fascinated by Bruce, sure, but he wasn't looking to become some rich assholes charity case. He could see it now: Bruce Wayne's Guide on Reforming the Criminally Insane. 

He ignored him, gritting his teeth and surging forward, feeling half-savage. 

The man was still screaming. Bruce didn't move away. "He'll send a message to Jeremiah like this. It's more poignant if he's still breathing." 

It was a weak argument. They both knew that. And yet. It was cruel, Jonathan supposed, to leave a man alone to face his worst fears, unable to even move as complete terror paralysed him. Eventually, he'd lose his voice, might even damage his larynx. And, when Jeremiah came through to check on his hench people, he'd die. Jonathan wondered if Bruce had thought of that, but didn't bring it up. Instead, he just nodded slowly, hoping his dissatisfaction and menace came across fully. 

Bruce looked at him for a long moment. He always seemed to be assessing him, balancing out his faults in some scale system that was unknown to anyone other than himself. Could he ever look at a person without acting like he was weighing their whole worth? If he could, Jonathan hadn't seen him do it yet. 

He looked away after a moment and moved around him, and, with a faint thrill of  _ something _ , Jonathan noticed that the soles of Bruce's shoes were stained with the blood that he spilled. That felt significant somehow. 

Apparently, while Jonathan had been dealing with the other two henchmen, Bruce got the upperhand in his fight with the one that dove away. He'd managed to tie him to an old desk chair, using what looked to be the man's own belt. It was inspired. The man was watching their approach, clearly on edge. Jonathan could tell just from looking at his expression that he wasn't too worried about Bruce's presence, even if he was the one to tie him up. Though, to be fair, the oatmeal sweater wouldn't win him any intimidation awards. 

Bruce settled himself in front of the man, filling his range of vision, while Jonathan lingered a few steps behind, curious as to just what of Bruce Wayne he'd get to see. 

"Where's Jeremiah?" Bruce asked.

The man laughed, his smile pulled unnaturally wide and his lipstick streaking. "Who's Jeremiah?"

Bruce was still for a moment, coiled up tightly, before, in a move that was quicker than Jonathan would have been able to anticipate, he reared his arm back and hit the man across the face. Then, in a bored voice, asked again, "Where's Jeremiah?"

The man spit. "Fuck. Off."

Bruce hit him again, across the same side of his face, and then reached down and grabbed him by the jaw. He brought his face down closer to the man's, his fingers digging unpleasantly into his neck, tight enough to be uncomfortable. "He'll kill you for getting caught. What could you owe him that's worth your life?" 

The man didn't say anything. He just stared up at him, smiling widely. 

Bruce sighed and dropped his jaw. For a moment, it looked like he would walk away, maybe let Jonathan have a turn, but then he lunged forward again, hitting the man across the other side of his face three times in quick succession. The man's head lolled forward. Jonathan could see that his lip had started bleeding, and he felt his pulse speed up. Bruce was more interesting than he could have ever hoped. He'd dropped his fist, but brought his hand to the top of the man's head, grabbing a fist full of hair and yanking his head up. 

"Where. Is.  _ Jeremiah _ ?" There was something warning in his voice. Predatory. 

The man sneered. "Fuck you."

Bruce let go of his hair and took a step back. "Alright."

He reached into one of the front pockets on his slacks and grabbed something that Jonathan couldn't see. After a moment, where the man's face made a complicated, almost frightened expression, Bruce pitched forward again, punching wildly with no restraint. The sound would have been horrifying had anyone but Jonathan been listening, but, to him, there was something wonderful in watching goody-two-shoes Bruce Wayne, in his oversized oatmeal sweater, beat a man. 

Compared to other beatings he's witnessed, Bruce stopped relatively quickly, and stepped away at such an angle that Jonathan could see the man's face again. It was starting to look like minced meat. Blood was streaming down from his nose. Both sides of his lip were bleeding. There was a nasty cut over one eyebrow and another one over his cheekbone, and he'd definitely end up with two black eyes. 

"Where's Jeremiah?"

The man said nothing, spitting blood out of his mouth. It dribbled down his chin. 

Bruce made a movement, either reaching out towards the man or just reaching back into his pocket, Jonathan couldn't tell, but he did catch the man's flinch from where he was watching. Now  _ that _ was sweet. He was almost ready to talk. Jonathan felt almost voyeuristic watching the interegation. He knew that Bruce was competent, you don't escape from psychopaths as often as he did without being crafty and some kind of tough, and from what he caught in the alley the night before he was clearly capable of violence, but seeing it so vividly was something else. 

It didn't hurt that Bruce certainly cut a figure when leaning over a victim. Jonathan felt, in some ways, twelve again. He felt like he did when Daisy Allen from science class smiled at him, and he was positive that if Bruce looked over at him that he'd blush as scarlet as he did back in Mr. Addy's class. It was pathetic. 

Bruce reached out and grabbed the man's shoulder. An illusion of tenderness. "Just tell me where he is." 

Again the man said nothing, just titled his head back in the air like he was boneless. 

Bruce let out an angry sigh that cut sharply through the air of the room. Then, not that Jonathan was watching him too closely, reached behind himself to lift up his sweater, just a smidge, and pulled something glinting away from his body. A knife. Apparently, oversized sweaters made it easier to carry weapons around secretly. From where he was standing, Jonathan felt a tiny bit astounded. Just how far would Bruce go, he wondered.

When the man saw the knife he made a wounded, abortive sound. Bruce pushed closer and let it rest against his cheek, halting the panicked movements the man had began to make. 

"For someone who knows Jeremiah will kill him at the first chance, you seem pretty apprehensive about  _ this _ ." Bruce dragged the tip of this knife across his cheeks, not pressing down hard enough to cut him. "No comments?" 

The man was holding himself impressively still. 

"Tell me where Jeremiah is," Bruce said, settling the knife over the man's lips, "Or I'll show you what I can do with this." 

He was bluffing. He had to be. There was no way that he would ever  _ torture  _ someone. Jonathan didn't claim to know a lot about Bruce Wayne, but he knew for someone like him his statement of "I will not kill" encompassed more than just stopping someone's heart. 

The man at his mercy, however, knew no such thing and, after a long moment, nodded his head jerkily, obviously apprehension about the knife. Slowly, Bruce moved the knife away, holding it loosely in one hand as he crowed over him. "Last I heard… Boss was holled up that clinic on Anderson and Fourth. By the Carbonell Deli.  _ Please _ ." 

"Thank you," Bruce said, tucking the knife back behind him, before rearing forward and hitting him hard enough to knock him unconscious. 

And then, finally, Bruce stepped fully away from the man, letting Jonathan take in his unobscured appearance. He was impressed by the sight the man made, bleeding and battered in his chair, all by his billionaire partner's hand. Jonathan was positive that Jerome would be rolling over in his grave at the idea of Bruce interrogating someone the way he just did. 

When he met Bruce's eye, Jonathan only nodded to him. He wasn't sure what he should say, or even  _ could  _ say, without making a fool out of himself. 

  
  


They left the building in silence, making it out onto the street again without any hassle. There were a few more people out now that it was later in the afternoon, but whenever they saw anyone they would duck out of view when they noticed the Scarecrow headed their way. Truly, the perks to fear were endless. 

Jonathan wouldn't call the quiet between them companionable, or even comfortable, really, but he supposed that was fair. They didn't know each other beyond the basics, even if Jonathan wanted to know more. Bruce was interesting. He was like a puzzle that couldn't quite be solved. An orphaned, billionaire who knew the Narrows suspiciously well, could fight suspiciously well, and chose the _ Scarecrow _ — not Jonathan Crane, not when he was in the suit —  over Jim Gordon and his shining beacon in the sky. 

A billionaire boy who wouldn't kill, but had no problems with inciting other types of violence, and was willing to bluff his way around the idea of torture. He was fascinating. So much darkness hidden beneath his skin.  _ And _ , a traitorous corner of his mind whispered, he was  _ cute _ . It was horrible, really. Even now, with his knuckles raw and cracking, and a few specks of blood staining one of the oversized sleeves of the sweater he pushed up around his elbows, he looked good. Jonathan wanted to  _ explode _ .

Instead, he steadfastly ignored the fact that his cheeks felt warm, eternally thankful for the mask, and said, "The knife was a nice touch. Unexpected. Dramatic. Very Gothamite of you." 

He didn't look over, but the tension in the air returned full force, and he was positive that Bruce stiffened. "It was cruel."

Jonathan shrugged, over exaggerating the movement to compensate for the suit. "He was a coward. You capitalized on that. It's the only way to get things done in this city."

"Maybe," Bruce said, inscrutable as ever. "But it shouldn't be." 

Jonathan felt annoyance stirring in the pit of his stomach. "I don't know if you've noticed this, but Gotham's gone to shit. Good luck trying to change anything now."

"I'm not trying to—" He sighed. "Look. On a scale of one to… Oswald Cobblepot, how angry do you get over constructive criticism?"

Bruce put it lightly, like the question itself could make him whip out his scythe, and, despite himself, Jonathan felt the urge to laugh. He didn't, of course. "Six on a good day."

"And is today a good day?"

"Relatively."

For a long moment, Bruce was quiet, pushing up on his sleeves in what had to be a nervous tick, and running a hand through his hair. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like some warning before you use your toxin. It's airborne and, unlike you, I don't have something to filter it."

That caught Jonathan by surprise. He was expecting some asine plea not to kill. The point he made about the toxin hadn't even crossed his mind, but he couldn't say that it wasn't a fair point. Bruce didn't have anything protecting him from exposure, especially in open spaces. Besides, it wasn't as if he couldn't rely on his scythe in exchange for not using the toxin as heavily. It wasn't an inappropriate request. 

He nodded slowly. "I could do that."

Bruce nodded back, and quietly said, "Thank you."

Jonathan could feel himself blushing. 

  
  


The clinic wasn't too far away from Jeremiah's old hideaway, and time was of the essence, especially when he considered what could happen if Jeremiah were to get wind of someone hunting him down or, even worse, if he learned of his partnership with Bruce. He'd get skittish, and when he got skittish Jonathan had noticed that people tended to die. And that was, naturally, something he'd like to avoid.

They ended up just on the outskirts of the neighborhood that Jonathan had claimed for himself. It was on someone else's turf, but, as far as he could see, no one was around to protect it. He couldn't blame them. It wasn't exactly prime real estate. In fact, most of the buildings were boarded up or hidden behind metal grates. If Jonathan had to guess he'd assume the area had been deserted long before this "no man's land" they found themselves in. Even so, there was something that felt off about the area and he could feel the warning settle over him as they crossed another abandoned block.

The Carbonell Deli was just as deserted as the rest of the neighborhood and, looking at the grimy front windows, Jonathan was finally able to place what was making him so uneasy. He could remember his parents whispering about the Carbonell's. They'd been a minor force in the city, hiding behind the bigger guys, Falcone and Maroni and Cobblepot. Still, this was their territory, and with Gotham as vulnerable as it was, now would be the time to capitalize. It was the perfect opportunity. And yet, the streets were empty. It was like everyone who had lived in the area vanished into thin air. 

Bruce looked just as wary as he felt, but pushed forward despite it. Fearless or hiding it well. Jonathan ghosted the steps behind him, wondering if this would be the end of their partnership. 

The clinic was a narrow, multi-storied building with thin alley's on either side of it lined by a battered and cut up chain link fence. The front windows were broken in several places, littering the sidewalk with broken glass. The vinyl sign that had once hung above the door, too colorful for their dull city, was handing off to the side, ripped and billowing ominously in the wind. 

Bruce stepped over the glass, crossing over to the front door and pushing it open. At least this time they could look out onto the ground floor and see that it was empty. The door opened with a groan, the hinges squeaking, and, just like that, they made it inside. 

The building may have been narrow, but it was deeper than he'd assumed. Outside of the reception area, which took up most of the ground floor, he could make out plastic swinging doors, beckoning them further. Off to the side, a staircase spilled out, so steep that Jonathan, who already knew that the healthcare standards in the city were subpar, was a bit bewildered. There was no way that it was up to code. He allowed himself an eye roll at the idiocy, thankful, again, for the mask he wore. 

He gripped his scythe tighter, drawing it forward as he started towards the swinging doors, intent on clearing the ground floor. Bruce didn't move. He was stopped halfway between Jonathan and the staircase, a look of determination crossing his face. When he turned to face him, he had to repress a second eye roll.

"What is it?" he asked, the impatience in his voice coming through clearly. 

His head jerked up, as if he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone. He was lost in his own thoughts, and Jonathan found himself wanting to know what he was thinking. He wanted to know what could distract him so thoroughly when the situation they were in required his full awareness and attention. 

Bruce looked at him for a long moment, something far away in his eyes — and that a worrying sign. It was a look he knew well from his time in Arkham and it never meant anything good. Then he ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disarayed than it had been in the morning, and looked away. "I think we should split up."

Jonathan wanted to laugh. That was a ridiculous idea. Had he never seen a horror movie in his life? Actually, he thought as he assessed Bruce, he probably hadn't. Did rich people have time in their days for movies?

"That doesn't seem like the soundest—" he started.

"Look," Bruce interrupted, his mouth twisted into a frown. "Sorry. I just have a feeling that we should get out of here as soon as we can. You can check the back and I'll start clearing the upper floors. In and out." 

And it, of course, had nothing to do with the fact that if Jeremiah was hunkered down in the oppressively silent clinic he'd have probably hidden himself somewhere upstairs, which meant that Bruce would have first dibs on whatever happened to him. That would be a completely insane connection to make. Despite that, Jonathan had to agree. There  _ was _ something unsettling about the place, and coming from him that meant a lot. He could feel anticipation lining his veins as he waited for something to happen. 

He frowned, not entirely sold on the idea, but still shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he said. "Try not to get yourself killed."

Bruce just nodded, pushing up his sleeves and moving towards the deathtrap of a staircase. Jonathan stayed still for a moment, watching as he made his way up the steep steps. He'd mastered the act of moving softly and his footfalls never made a sound. Once he disappeared from view, Jonathan remained where he was for a beat longer, his mind stuck on wondering what exactly Bruce would do if he found Jeremiah laying out on one of the exam tables, recovering from his injuries or taking stock or whatever it was that someone like Jeremiah Valeska did after causing a catastrophe. 

The question ate at him. What did Bruce intend to do once he got his hands on him? He wondered if the knife he kept in his back pocket was something he always carried — a side effect of being a career hostage — or if it was something new, something he added to his inventory because of the way Jeremiah dug himself under his skin. He wondered, and then he sighed. None of those were questions he was ever going to get an answer to. At least not anytime soon. 

Curiosity bubbled in the pit of his stomach and washed over the last dredges of annoyance he felt. He was not a fan of the way Bruce seemed to lord over situations, like he had to make it clear that no matter what you thought or what your argument was, he would still do what he thought was best. It was obnoxious. Dangerous, at times. And it made the paper-thin skin on Jonathan's wrists itch. 

Finally, after he was sure that Bruce had made his way upstairs, he moved. The plastic doors pushed open with a muffed squeak. There was no dust on any of the equipment in the back, so the abandonment was recent. But, with the state Gotham was currently in, a clinic would be the first place the homeless, and otherwise desolate, would hit. Yet the back of the building was just as empty as the reception area.

He made his way down the hallway sedately, his scythe dragging across metal trays and over cheap countertops. He slid curtain dividers open only to find vacant exam tables. There was no sign of life. There was no one here. The anticipation in his blood started to buzz. Something wasn't right with this. 

Just as he began to turn away and head back through the doors, there was a crash from above him. He tensed. Waiting. Listening. There was a long stretch of silence and then a second crash, drawn out. It sounded like a fight. After the third crash, he snapped into motion, pushing back out of the doors and crossing the room to the staircase. With the weight of his suit and the odd angle he had to carry his scythe at, his trip upstairs required more care than he would like to admit. 

When he made it to the first landing, however, he was faced not with an opening into the second floor, but with a thick, metal door, not unlike one that you'd see in a bank vault. There was silence on the other side, but the sound might have been muffled behind the door. Jonathan yanked on the handle, finding more resistance than he expected to, but, after a few precious seconds, it opened. And in the room there was silence. 

No.

Wait. 

He could make out breathing. Choking? Some sort of gasping pained noise that set his hair on end. He walked through the doorway into what looked like a second reception area, with a hallway spreading behind it lined with doorways. At first, he couldn't see anything out of place, but as he stepped further into the room and turned, he could see a large man, dressed in a poorly fitted, tweed overcoat, holding someone, that had to be Bruce — who else could it be? — up by the neck, strangling him. 

And that just wouldn't do. Jonathan felt a stillness settle over him as he walked softly behind the man, his footsteps not making a sound. He held his scythe at the ready, considered swinging it through the man's neck, imagined what Bruce would look like splattered in blood, imagined it on his lips, but pushed those thoughts away. He wouldn't do that. Bruce's challenge from yesterday night — had it really been such a short amount of time? — rang through his head.  _ I don't kill _ .

Before he could process his own idea, he was already swinging his scythe down through the man's left calf, sweeping him off his feet. His hands left Bruce's neck as he fell. Jonathan spun his scythe around expertly, hitting him on the head with its handle, hard enough to knock him unconscious. 

At the same time, once the man let go of his neck, Bruce fell forward, gasping and sputtering, stumbling into Jonathan as he regained his footing. His hands instinctively grabbed onto the burlap of his suit. His head leaned forward enough that he was almost resting it on his chest, as he struggled to breathe. 

Jonathan wondered how long he'd been held up. He was shaking and every breath he took shuddered though him painfully, and Jonathan imagined that if he touched him now he'd be able to feel his heartbeat pulsing under his skin. It was almost entrancing. It might have been if this was a victim like any other, but all he felt when looked at Bruce was anger. Someone else had made him afraid. That wasn't right. 

They stood there for a long time. Jonathan was pretending like he didn't know why he was keeping still and Bruce gasping until his breathing slowly became more regulated and he could lift his head up. The ends of his hair skimmed over Jonathan's nose when he did. At some point, they'd moved even closer together. Bruce looked up at him, looked straight into his eye holes, and Jonathan, for the first time in a long while, felt the overwhelming desire to look away. 

Bruce's eyes were red. Horrifically red. The blood vessels must have burst from the stress, staining the whites. He wanted to look away from him and his glassy, watery stare, but he didn't. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. He just stood there and stared back. Bruce was breathing through his mouth, which was impossibly red, and trembling with every inhale and exhale. There were angry red marks around his neck, and, Jonathan noticed feeling his anger well up again, fingernail indents scratched into his skin. The bruises would be awful. 

Bruce leaned back a bit, his fingers twitching where they were still holding onto Jonathan's suit, and he wet his lips before he found his voice. "Thanks."

It was more of a croak than anything, and he winced as he said it. Jonathan wondered if it was inappropriate that he hadn't felt more flustered by anything Bruce Wayne had done before this moment. 

  
  


Jonathan was left staring at the man in tweed, prodding him every few seconds with the end of his scythe. After seeing what he did to Bruce, he wished he'd taken the initiative and gone for the throat, but, now that he was at his mercy, he found himself unmotivated to finish him. He wanted to hold onto the way Bruce looked at him for a little longer. Bloodshot eyes and all. 

So he sat, leaning against the clunky receptionists desk, waiting for Bruce to meander back from the long hallway of doorways. He would have followed him, but after Bruce first started walking away, when Jonathan asked him where he was going, he'd been given a look that clearly read  _ fuck off, I'll be back _ or something along similar lines. 

Bruce was back after a moment, carrying something in his hands — a large needle-tipped syringe filled with something. He stopped beside the man and knelt down next to him, grabbing onto one of his meaty arms and rolling him over onto his back. His face, which Jonathan hadn't seen yet, was beefy, with a strong jaw and a crooked nose, and, most distressing of all, a smile painted widely across it, even while unconcious. The edges of it looked dry and cracking. 

Bruce looked at the man, then looked at Jonathan and croaked out, "Jerome."

Jonathan froze. Could the lack of air have affected his cognitive capacities? He read somewhere that asphyxiation could cause memory problems, and while the man was clearly not Jerome Valeska, maybe the crazed smile made a connection in Bruce's head. 

To be gentle, he said, "No. He's dead." Then he paused. "For real this time."

Bruce closed his eyes. " _ No _ . Jerome's insanity gas. He was infected. Jeremiah must be working on recreating the formula."

The sentence sounded painful even to Jonathan's ears. Bruce's voice raspy and breaking on every other consonant. He had a point, though. The smile was reminiscent to the ones the gas that he'd created induced. But why would Jeremiah want to make more of the gas? Even if he planned on further terrorizing Gotham, the people left in the city were mostly the sort of degenerates that nobody cared for. Gasing them wouldn't prove anything to anyone. 

He frowned under his mask. He hated plagiarism. Imitation was the  _ lowest _ form of flattery. "He'd need test subjects if he was attempting to make it from scratch. That could explain what happened to everyone in the area."

Especially if he contained the outbreak. Went house by house and chronicled the effects. It was what Jonathan would do. And, from what he'd seen of him, it was also what someone as meticulous as Jeremiah would do. 

"Also explains the bodies upstairs," Bruce added. "All smiling."

Jonathan took his word for it. "Which brings us back to square one. Jeremiah could be anywhere."

"No. He's testing… Collecting. He needs a lab space." He coughed, painfully. "Territories are well guarded. We'll find him."

Jonathan really thought that Bruce's first concern should be getting back to the house that they were staying at, and not on the logistics of where Jeremiah would be. Before he could bring up leaving the clinic, though, Bruce caught his attention again. He'd brought his hand down to the man's forehead, in an odd show of tenderness, brushing a few stray pieces of hair back into place. Then, in an act that left Jonathan dumbfounded, took the needle he'd been holding and jammed it into the man's neck, depressing all of its contents. 

Bruce was still for a moment. Then he pushed himself onto his feet and met Jonathan's stumped silence with a blank expression. "Sodium thiopental."

He blinked, tilting his head to the side as he considered Bruce. "That was a lethal dosage."

Bruce's mouth twisted downwards. "He'd die either way. At least, like this, he won't suffer." 

He looked back towards the man, something Jonathan couldn't place crossing his face, before he pushed out of the room. Clearly, he was more shaken by his act of euthanasia than he wanted to let on. Jonathan looked down at the man. He couldn't tell if his heart was still beating or not. Despite that, he raised his scythe and settled it across his throat. 

Kindness was not in his nature. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd really love it if y'all left feedback. 
> 
> I know this is like a practically non-existent ship, especially in the Gotham universe, so if anyone ever wants to talk about them, I'm on Tumblr @ivvpepper. 
> 
> I have no faith in myself, but I'll tentatively say that the next chapter will be out in a month. 
> 
> Update, as of August 25: real life unexpectedly ran me over, but I'm still working on the next chapter. in a bit of a pickle characterization-wise, but other than that just know that I am going to update this soon!


End file.
